Hickory Jack (Ben Blue Book 1) Read online

  Hickory Jack

  By Lou Bradshaw

  Copyright 2013 © L. E. Bradshaw

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author or his authorized representative, except for review purposes.

  Hickory Jack is a work of fiction, and is not intended to portray any historical character. Historical characters referred to, such as Wild Bill Hickok, were not a part of the story, and were used only as reference. Events and some geographic locations are products of the author’s imagination.

  This book is dedicated to my lovely wife, Avon, who graciously tolerates my writing habit and most of my other habits as well.

  Cover Illustration by the author, Lou Bradshaw

  Also by Lou Bradshaw:

  A Fine Kettle of Fish… On Kindle

  Introduction

  In the years following the Civil War, many lives were swept up by the tide of restlessness and lawlessness. Some of those lives were changed forever, some were ruined beyond redemption, and yet others were merely snuffed out. Hickory Jack is a tale of two young lives which were changed beyond any hope of ever being the same. Andy Moore age fourteen and Ben Blue age twelve came face to face with violence and evil as boys, and they responded as men.

  As they grew in size and years, they also grew in the knowledge of what it took to be a man and to walk in a man’s boots. They gained the knowledge that life was hard, and fairness had never been a promise. They also learned that some men do things for no other reason than they can, and they respected no law higher than what rested in their holsters.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 1

  Horses on the wagon road, which passed within fifty feet of the yard, weren’t anything out of the ordinary. There were a lot of folks on the move in those days. Ever since the fighting between the gray and blue had stopped people had been drifting by… mostly men, one or two men at a time and sometimes more. They were rough shaggy men, and they were hungry men… always hungry. Sometimes, though, there were whole families in wagons pulled by some mighty poor looking mules or oxen.

  Uncle Joe would let families set up camp in the grove down by the river and rest up if they needed to. Aunt Alice always tried to see that there was a little bit of food or milk for those that needed it especially if there were little ones. She always said, “The Almighty has given us enough, and we can share with those in need.” That’s the way they were, even when The Almighty hadn’t always provided quite enough, they shared.

  Andy and I had been cutting hay all morning and had just brought in a wagonload to be stored against next winters need. I was in the wagon with a fork trying to get as much as I could through the big open loft door by myself. I was twelve years old. Andy was inside the barn sharpening our scythes – he was fourteen. When I heard the horses, I naturally stopped pitching hay, jumped off the wagon, and went to see who was coming. My guess was that Andy had done the same thing inside the barn. We were kids and always ready for a stop work, especially if it could turn out interesting.

  What we saw was more than interesting. Three down and out looking men came jogging into the yard on horses that were much better looking than the men. Two of the men dismounted, and the first one walked up toward the porch where Aunt Alice was standing. The second man on the ground walked away a few steps in my direction, but he wasn’t looking at me; he was watching the front of the barn where I figured Andy to be standing. The third man stayed mounted and held the reins of the other horses. Somehow, this all looked wrong.

  What happened next happened so fast that I still can’t hardly believe it was only a few seconds; it seemed like hours. Suddenly, the man talking to Aunt Alice reached up, grabbed her arm, yanked her off porch, and flung her to the ground. She screamed and tried to get up. He then pulled a gun from his belt and gave her a backhanded swipe with it, which struck her across the side of her head. She went limp. When he straightened up, he was looking toward the front of the barn. I heard a pop, which I recognized as the old rat pistol that was kept in the barn for shooting rats. It wasn’t much of a gun just an old .32, but it was just right for a pot shot at a rat.

  The man just looked at the barn door, raised his own gun, and aimed at where Andy must have been. But instead of shooting, he just sort of melted to the ground. I heard another pop, and the second man was cussin something fierce and trying to get on his horse, which was cuttin some awful shines. Andy must have burned it with the second shot. The third man couldn’t control all three horses; in fact he was having enough trouble just staying in the saddle. Then, he too was on the ground trying to get on a horse.

  The second man lost hold of his horse, turned and took a hurried shot at Andy, and started running toward me. All I could think to do was duck around the corner and flatten myself against the wall… and pray. The truth is I don’t know what I did because the next thing I knew I was face to face with the running man and it was all I could to hold him up. I let go of the hayfork and both him and the fork fell away together. I stood there for a second looking at that fork handle pointing at the sky and the prongs buried to the hilt in his belly.

  I heard another pop or maybe it was two. I figured Andy was having it out with the third man and the rat pistol would be almost empty. I reached down, pulled the gun from the fallen man’s hand not knowing or caring whether he was alive or dead. Then I took off around the barn. As I came around the corner, I saw that the third man had gotten his horse righted and was heading for the road. I raised that big old pistol, eared back the hammer, and holding it with both hands pulled the trigger. All I was aware of was a lot of noise, smoke, and a terrible jolt, which threw both hands in the air and the gun somewhere behind me. I found the gun again and started back around to the front of the barn.

  By the time I got into the yard Andy was bending over Aunt Alice trying to wake her, all that blood in her hair sure looked bad. He put his ear near her face like he was trying to hear a secret, but I figured he was trying to see if she was breathing. Next, he put his hand gently on her chest and started to sob. He looked up at me with tears running down his face and said, “She’s dead, Ben.” Then he buried his face in his hands and cried. I was crying right along with him.

  The man on the ground behind him started moaning and groaning. I turned and looked down at him and saw that he had a bloody spot somewhere in the upper right side of his chest. He had started rolling his head from side to side and was trying to raise his left arm. I said, “Andy, what about him?”

  Andy handed me
the rat pistol and said, “Shoot him.”

  I laid that other gun down and turned to the man on the ground. His eyes were fluttering open and I was afraid he would start to get up, and he did. I pressed the gun to where I thought his heart was and pulled the trigger. I knew it was a sin to shoot him like that, but he had just killed Andy’s mother and the closest thing to a mother that I could remember.

  “I better go git your pa.” I told him. He just nodded but didn’t say anything.

  The killer’s horse was standing a few feet away so I took it and headed down toward the river bottom where Uncle Joe was clearing out rocks with the mules and a stone sled. As I hit the wagon road, I heard a gunshot from that direction. By the time I neared where I would turn off the road I saw the horse laying in the ditch all bloody and kicking. I must have hit the horse instead of the rider. That meant the third man was afoot and probably nearby. Uncle Joe should be within a couple of hundred yards from where I was, so I kicked that horse and hung on.

  When I got into the bottom I could see the sled and one of the mules, but I couldn’t see Uncle Joe or the other mule. On the other side of the sled I found Uncle Joe face down in the grass with blood all over the back of his shirt. I had seen too much killing and dying in the last ten minutes to be shocked by the sight. I just rolled him over to see if he was still alive, and I saw that he was breathing. My heart jumped for joy. I had to get him back to the house and get him some help – but how.

  Uncle Joe wasn’t a really big man, but he was bigger than I could carry or even get onto a horse or the mule. About the only thing I could think to do was drag him onto the sled, and pull the whole shebang up to the house. I didn’t know if that lone mule could pull a loaded sled, so I shoved off most of the rock and got Uncle Joe on. I figured that third outlaw was riding our other mule, but I’d have to think about that later. Riding the killer’s horse and carefully leading the mule and Uncle Joe we made it to the house in short order.

  I told everything to Andy, and he started trying to stop his pa’s bleeding back. He looked up and said, “Ben, I can’t do him no good. I just don’t know what to do. Ride over Mr. Thompson’s and have him send someone for the Doctor.”

  I jumped back on that horse and was ready to take off when Andy grabbed my leg and said, “For God sakes, Ben, hurry!”

  I had never ridden a good horse before, and that was a good horse. It nearly jumped out from under me when I banged it in the ribs. We were down the road and over the hill faster than spit. I pulled into old man Thompson’s yard at a dead run, and when I slid it to a stop all he said from his rocker on the porch was, “Fine lookin’ animal you got there, Ben boy. Shouldn’t treat it that-a-way.”

  I jumped down and started yammering about outlaws and killers and Aunt Alice and Uncle Joe bein near to dying. I never gave the old coot near enough credit because he started yellin at this one and barking orders at that one. Within a few minutes his wagon was hitched, Cletus, his hired hand, was saddled and headed for the doctor and the sheriff; his widowed daughter had her herbs and bandages, and was sitting in the wagon before he was ready to slap the reins. They would have to come by way of the wagon road, but I took off across country as fast as I could. I didn’t know what I could do, but at least I could let Andy know that help was on the way.

  All the time I was riding, I kept thinking of my first memories of Aunt Alice Moore and the story she told of finding me. About eight or nine years ago a fever swept through these Missouri hills and a lot of families were completely wiped out. Aunt Alice lost her father and a baby girl. The Moores were our closest neighbors, and we helped each other out when help was needed. Aunt Alice said that when the fever left them and those who would recover were on the mend she came to look in on us.

  When she got to our cabin, she said she found me sitting on the front porch eating corn meal from a dirty bowl. I was filthy, and she could see the tear tracks down my face. I was about three years old at the time. When she went inside she found the rest of the family, my ma, pa, big sister Nell, and brother Hank all in bed and all gone. I must have been there alone for a couple of days because Aunt Alice said I had eaten some flour and had been chewing on a side of bacon. She just bundled me up, and took me home with her. I’ve been there ever since.

  I don’t remember the burying or much else from that time. I just knew that the Blues were all gone except for me, Ben Blue. Aunt Alice said she had found some letters from Ma’s kin in Tennessee and had written, but she never got any answers.

  Chapter 2

  When I got back to the cabin, I found Andy still working over his pa. He had taken a quilt from the house and covered Aunt Alice, of which I was grateful. I just hated to see her lying there in the sunlight, knowing she would never give either of us a hug when we needed one or a licken when we deserved one. I told him that Mr. Thompson and Elizabeth were on their way, and that Cletus was going for the doctor and the sheriff. He was much relieved that Elizabeth was coming because she had a way with wounds and sickness, and who knew how long it would take the doctor to get there. We hadn’t even thought about the sheriff, but I guess old man Thompson had a clearer head than we did.

  I unhitched the mule, and put him in the corral. Next, I rounded up that other horse, stripped his gear and turned him in with the mule. That horse had a slight streak of blood on his rump, but he would be all right. The horse I had been riding I just tied to the corral and left it saddled. I was just keeping busy and staying out of Andy’s way. By the time I got the animals taken care of the Thompsons were just coming into the yard.

  Before the dust had settled, Elizabeth was on the ground kneeling over Uncle Joe, she sent me to get water and start some boiling, and she had Andy tearing bandages. Old man Thompson took a good look at the dead outlaw, and then lifted the quilt from Aunt Alice’s face and said, “What a shame. Just a shame-shame-shame – good woman like that.” Then he led the team over to the water trough and let them drink. With that done, he found a place on the porch, sat down and lit his pipe.

  The fire in the cook stove was more coals than flames, but it didn’t take me much to get it hot again and a pot of water heating up. I sat down near Mr. Thompson to wait. All of a sudden we heard some God awful screaming, and someone started yelling, “Oh God – Oh Jesus, help me! Oh please, somebody help me!”

  Mr. Thompson stopped in mid-puff and looked at me funny. I said, “That must be the fella that I stuck with my fork. I thought he was dead.”

  The old man nodded and said, “Guess we ought to go take a look at him. See if he’s worth fixin up for hangin or not.”

  We walked around the barn to where I had left that fella after he had run into my hayfork. It didn’t look like he had moved any, but then I guess it would have been hard to move with that fork stuck in the ground. His eyes were open and he was sweatin pretty bad, but he was bleedin even worse. Mr. Thompson walked around where the fella could see him and said. ‘Young feller, it looks like you got yourself into a fix here.” Then he started to pull the pitchfork out.

  The outlaw screamed and cried out, “Oh, Jesus, please help me.”

  Old man Thompson said, “That hurt a bit do it? We’ll have to take it kinda slow. But your goin to have to answer a couple of question fust. I wanta know is what you mean by coming up here and tryin to hurt these nice folks?”

  The man on the ground gasped and said, “We didn’t do nuthin. We just rode up and that kid in the barn started shootin.”

  The old man moved the fork and the man screamed again. Then Mr. Thompson said, “Who was that feller that got away?”

  The man said, “I don’t know him. We just met up on the…” With that Mr. Thompson gave the fork a shake. This produced another scream and some more appeals to Heaven.

  Mr. Thompson got down on his knees and told the man in plain backcountry English, “Feller, I ain’t God and I ain’t Jesus and I ain’t the Holy Ghost neither. But, God helps them that helps themselfs. Now, you ain’t helpin yourself none until you
start talkin. Who was that other one?”

  The outlaw didn’t hesitate a second, he came right out with the name of, Clyde Gentry.

  Next, the old man asked him if there were any more in that bunch and reached for the fork handle. That fella came up with five more names including the dead man in the yard, which was Winslow. The leader’s name was Amos Poke. I’d heard of him. They called him the “Judge” because he was quick to pass sentence on his victims. He also told us where their hideout was.

  Old man Thompson asked him what he was after here, since this was just a little hill country farm. The outlaw told him that they would take whatever they could find, but they were mostly after a woman – any woman.

  “Feller,” Mr. Thompson said, “I’m afraid there ain’t much we can do to save your life. If I pull that fork out it’s gonna kill you and hurt somethin terrible. If I leave it in your gonna just bleed out. If I was you I’d start tryin’ to get things straight with your maker. You might wanta do a little prayin. If you want, I’ll stay here with you.”

  “But I don’t know how to pray.” the man sobbed.

  “Didn’t your momma teach you any Sunday School prayers when you was a younker?” Mr. Thompson asked.

  Then he turned to me and said, “Ben, you better go see if that water’s boilin yet. And you better let me have that pistol in your belt in case this feller tries to jump me.”